Chapter 6

Pembroke hadn’t seen another human in three days since returning to the island. The boat, which he now realized came with the property, was still moored in the small harbor. It looked ever so frail and inadequate for the five-mile journey to any other inhabited island. The isolation gnawed at him, feeding his dark imagination.

It didn’t help that his only entertainment consisted of some horrific porn DVDs and a handful of poor-quality movies he’d already seen. He had brought books but couldn’t bring himself to read them. Alcohol and trash food was the only other physical distraction.

The house remained cold and empty, devoid of any semblance of home—not that Pembroke had any experience in turning a house into one. It was all secure doors, thick walls, reinforced steel, and sterile efficiency. The kitchen was practical but joyless, the lone TV outdated. There was no internet, nothing to do. Outside, the relentless wind and surf howled.

The basement was even more fortified than the rest of the house. It was like a fortress, with layers of electronic security. Pembroke had set it up so that only he could access it, using a combination of his thumbprint, eye scan, and a code. He laughed at the absurdity of it. Who on earth was going to invade this godforsaken place?

But soon his thoughts shifted, darker now. He began to wonder less about who might try to break in and more about who might try to break out. He ran his fingers along the cold steel rails bolted to the walls, imagining them not as lifeless infrastructure but as instruments of restraint. A vision flickered in his mind: a slender wrist, pale and trembling, shackled to the rail with handcuffs.

He envisioned an obscene dildo, protruding from the wall, marked with teeth marks and desperate scratches left behind by a prisoner. The thought thrilled him, the idea of struggle, submission, and despair.

He stepped outside to smoke. He considered how even a scream would dissolve into the void, swallowed by the endless grey sea. No one would see anyone waving for help, no one would hear a cry.

This place had potential—not just for him, but for someone else. Someone weak. Someone he could control. The thought began to blossom into vivid, detailed scenarios: a female, terrified and utterly alone, her spirit gradually crushed beneath the weight of his malice.

He would be her captor, her tormentor, her god.

“Dr McAllister, we’re sorry it has come to this. We just need to investigate further. There’s no suspicion yet, but from now on, a supervisor will have to be present whenever you see any patients, at least until we reach the next step.”

Dr Kate McAllister was devastated. Gillian Wright’s complaint against her was now under formal investigation. All it took was one spiteful little bitch, and suddenly, her entire career was on the line.

“Surely you don’t believe this!” Kate cried, her voice tinged with desperation.

“We must conclude our investigation,” the panel replied curtly, their tone devoid of sympathy.

Kate stormed out of the meeting in tears. How could they believe some druggy little whore who was only after money? Her? A predatory lesbian?

---------- After nearly a week on the island, the crushing loneliness was pushing Pembroke to the edge. The stitches across his face—a vivid reminder of the stabbing—were ready to come out, and that alone gave him the excuse he needed to leave.

The boat journey back to the mainland was a trial in itself. The rickety craft groaned with every wave, its ancient engine spluttering and threatening to peter out constantly. Each swell made him wonder what would happen if he capsized—how quickly he would vanish beneath the waves, forgotten. But he knew just enough to work the boat, steering it toward the harbor where he secured it among the other weathered vessels and set off to find another rental car.

As he drove, Pembroke deliberated on where to get the stitches removed. Eventually, he decided on a detour to Edinburgh. He figured he might as well take in the sights while taking care of the stitches.

---------- The girl at the hospital desk had seen her fair share of unsavory and downright horrific patients over the years, but Pembroke was in a league of his own. The tall, bulky, ungainly figure standing before her was a spectacle of disarray—unkempt hair, a scruffy week-old stubble, and the brutal knife wound stitched crudely across his face. He looked every bit of sixty, though she suspected he might be younger. To her, he was a walking embodiment of misery, and it was hard to look at him without wincing.

For Pembroke, the girl at the desk was a welcome reprieve after a week of isolation. He studied her intently—a short south Asian girl with long black hair, and voluptuous breasts rising from underneath a woollen sweater, with a short black skirt and tights. His animalistic urges returned straight away after a week with nothing but images on a screen and the waves and grass of the island.

“What about tomorrow at 2 p.m.? Is that okay, Mr. Pembroke?” asked the woman, her tone polite but brisk.

“For a drink? Well, of course,” Pembroke replied with a grin, leaning in slightly as if his comment were charming.

The receptionist recoiled in disgust, his yellow teeth of his smile just adding another layer to how repulsive this man was.

“Sir, please don’t say things like that. This is my place of work, and I am a professional,” she said firmly, her tone calm but with a sharp edge. She kept her focus on the paperwork in front of her. “Your appointment will be with Dr McAllister.”

Pembroke scowled at her, his mood souring as he begrudgingly finished the formalities. Stuck-up bitch, he thought bitterly. Who did she think she was?

Leaving the hospital, Pembroke remembered who and what he was. An ugly dirty old man. All these females would run a mile from him. None of them wanted to exchange a word with him unless their job demanded it. Which was why prostitutes and lap dancers were the only females he could spend more than a passing moment with.

With that in mind, Pembroke walked into the nearest strip club he could find. It was the middle of the afternoon, dark, and not very busy. Pembroke smiled as he saw the scantily clad, lovely young women, admiring the bare asses, breasts, and skimpy underwear on display. So easy to see it here, and so impossible to see it in any other situation.

But even these girls found it hard to disguise their revulsion at Pembroke. The fat old man with the facial scar and stitches, coming into focus gradually in the dim light, only scared them more.

Pembroke settled down with a beer by the stage, his eyes fixed on the girl dancing at the pole. Beside him sat another man, engrossed in the private dance he was receiving from a scantily clad young woman.

He felt his own cock stir in his pants as the dancer on stage gracefully leaped onto the pole. She slid down with practiced ease, wearing only a thong and bra—until, with a dramatic flourish, she tossed the bra aside, baring herself to the room.

There was something about seeing tits and ass in the flesh, he thought. It just beat the porn he had been watching on the island. But then he realised, he missed the touch of it, just watching was torture after a while.

He glanced to his side again. The dark-haired man beside him was clearly enjoying himself, smiling and chatting effortlessly with the girl straddling his lap. She looked young, perhaps eighteen or twenty, dressed in a white thong that sat high on her hips. The thin straps of the thong bit noticeably into her skin, pressing deeply enough that the flesh on either side bulged slightly, amid the smooth curve of her hips. Her buttocks were round and prominent, her back arched as she perched on his lap, arms draped loosely around his neck. Her blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders, and she giggled and smiled as the man gazed at her, his hands moving freely over her thighs and hips.

Pembroke was surprised—so they allowed touching here?

“Hey, you, give me a dance!” he called to an East Asian girl who looked up, surprised. She had been on her phone and appeared young and nervous, looking a bit unprepared despite being in lingerie—stockings, black and purple knickers, and a bra.

She had to pay the club twenty pounds just to be there and hadn’t done a single dance yet today. She was nervous, and her anxiety doubled when she saw how unattractive he was. As she walked over and got closer, she noticed the stitches on his face. Ugh, she thought, but a dance was a dance.

“How old are you, my darling?” Pembroke practically salivated as he leaned back, his gaze fixed on her. He barely looked at her eyes, instead drinking her in from her feet, up her slim legs and stockings along her panties and smooth stomach to her small breasts under her bra.